It was with considerable excitement that he keyed for a comm link. In a few heartbeats, he found himself staring at a subservient of indeterminate species. The being’s home world was not important. Its greeting was.
“Karap-Vas Fleet Headquarters,” it said. “To whom do you wish to speak?”
#
Captain Carl Cavendish of
TSNS Galahad
was in a foul mood. There was an ancient military expression for what was happening on this mission —
clusterfuck!
Cavendish remembered the sick feeling that formed in the pit of his stomach when Admiral Landon first proposed the operation to flush out the Broan home world. It just hadn’t felt right. Too complicated, for one thing. Also, too risky. It felt like a short cut and one did not take short cuts with the fate of the human race.
Cavendish fought to control his rage as he struggled to assess the impact of the destruction of
Sasquatch
. Getting angry was counterproductive at the moment. There would be time for that later. However, with Lyle Vanda dead, along with his entire crew, command of the mission now fell on Cavendish. Everyone aboard
Galahad
and
Yeovil
would be waiting for his orders. He didn’t have the luxury of letting anger cloud his judgment.
In retrospect, it had been a mistake to send
Sasquatch
so deep into an enemy star system. Save for the contact missions to Klys’kr’at and Pastol, this mission required the deepest penetration to date.
Even the Q-ships mostly stayed well beyond the critical limit. Seldom had a questing Q-ship needed to dive deeply into an enemy system. Stargates used a related technology to that of star drives, and were therefore allergic to strong gravitational fields.
Carl Cavendish took a deep breath and chastised himself for dwelling on the ‘might have beens.’ It was a natural human reaction, but as his instructors at the Space Academy drilled into him, a captain in command cannot afford to be human. He must be an extension of his ship and above such frailties as anger, self pity, or indecisiveness.
So, pushing his roiling emotions below the level of consciousness, Cavendish savagely slammed his open palm down on a control.
“Yes, captain?” his communicator-on-duty answered.
“Get me
Yeovil.
Captain Sulieman.”
A few seconds later, his local screen lit to show the features of a grim faced man with a full beard, a hawk-shaped nose, and piercing black eyes.
“Yes, Carl?”
“What is your status, Ravi?”
“
Yeovil
is ready for anything you require, Captain.”
“Good. I want you to go after
Sasquatch
.”
The other officer blinked, the only indication on his features of his surprise.
“A rescue?”
“Hardly. You saw the explosion. They are all dead, or soon will be. Otherwise, we would have heard from them by now. Nor have there been any secondary explosions. You know the standing orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Every man and woman in the Space Navy knew the standing orders. Welded to the keel of every ship in the fleet was a small nuclear device, to be used in the event the ship became disabled and at risk of falling into enemy hands. Faced with the possibility of capture and no hope of rescue,
Sasquatch
’s survivors
should have reported their situation and then used their self-destruct. That they hadn’t was as strong an indication as any that they were no longer alive.
“Your mission is to get close enough for sensors to ascertain the state of the wreckage. If there is anything left, I want you to use your superlight missiles to destroy the remnants. Nothing identifiable must fall into the hands of the Broa.”
“Yes, sir,” Sulieman replied. “Full emergency acceleration?”
“Whatever your crew can stand. We’ve got ten days before the wreckage reaches perigee with the planet. You can expect the Broa to give chase the first moment one of their ships is in position to do so. Stand by!”
An urgent signal had begun flashing on Cavendish’s board. He put Sulieman on hold and accepted the call. He wasn’t surprised to see Lisa Rykand’s features on his screen, nor to observe that she looked like hell. That she was functioning at all was a minor miracle.
“Yes, Commander Rykand?” he asked in as kindly a voice as he could manage in his current state of irritation.
“I have a report, Captain. The Broa have noted the explosion and dispatched three ships to intercept.”
Cavendish let out a low whistle, glancing at the time display in the corner of his screen. “That was fast. They made that decision in less than an hour. What is your assessment of this, Commander?”
“Sir?”
“Why the haste? They have ten days before
Sasquatch
reaches the planet and sails on by. Why not wait until then to give chase? The orbital solution would be a hell of a lot more straightforward.”
“They must be after something, Captain.
Sasquatch
had just launched the Trojan Horse. Perhaps it is undamaged.”
“It isn’t squawking the emergency frequencies yet, is it?”
“No, sir. We would hear that.”
“Then how could they spot it so far from the planet? What if it isn’t the Horse that has them interested? Could there be pieces left of the cruiser?”
“Yes, sir. That’s possible. I don’t see how we can speculate until we know what caused the malfunction.”
“Let me bring you up to date, Commander. The analysis team has been studying the spectrum of the blast. It wasn’t the self-destruct. Although damned large, the explosion wasn’t nuclear. It has the spectrum of a star drive malfunction.”
“Why would they use their star drive that deep in the gravity well?”
“Unknown. Probably we will never know.”
“Yes, sir,” came the listless reply.
“When does your shift end?”
“Uh, I haven’t been paying attention to shifts, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. You look awful. No reason you shouldn’t. You’ve had a hell of a shock.
“We all have, sir.”
“True. Still, you’ve done enough. Hand your duties over to the other translators and report to sick bay. Tell the doctor that I want her to give you something to make you sleep around the clock.”
“It isn’t necessary, Captain.”
“I think it is and the four stripes on my sleeve give my opinion more weight. You are off duty, Commander, as of this moment. Report to sick bay.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible for her to look more dejected. He was wrong. For a long moment, he thought she was going to break down.
Lisa signed off. The Captain ignored the blinking light from
Yeovil
, and keyed for sick bay instead.
“Were you listening?” he asked without preamble when Doctor Carr’s features appeared. At his orders, the doctor had been monitoring Lisa’s communications since the explosion.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get a couple of your people to Monitoring to make sure she complies. I want her out for the duration.”
“I agree, Captain. We’ll have her sedated within the next quarter-hour. I want to take some physiological readings first.”
“Whatever you think best, Doctor.”
He then punched for the comm link to
Yeovil
. “Sorry about that, Ravi. I have new information. The Broa are scrambling ships. That means there must be something there for them to intercept. Get in as fast as you can. As soon as you have closed to superlight missile range, destroy every chunk you see. Use the whole magazine if you have to. Then get out fast. The acceleration’s going to be hell on you and your crew, but it can’t be helped.
“Keep your speed up, maintain a hyperbolic orbit. That way, if anything happens to your ship, we can rendezvous with you on the other side of the system once you are back beyond the critical limit. Any questions?”
“No, sir. We’ll be powered up in five minutes.”
“Good man, Ravi. Luck. Cavendish out.”
“Thank you, sir. Sulieman out.”
#
Chapter Thirty-Two
Somewhere, someone was beating a big bass drum, which didn’t make any sense at all. Sensible or not, Mark Rykand wished they would stop. The monotonous
boom, boom, boom
was making his head hurt. Or rather, it was making his head hurt worse than it already did.
As he sometimes did on lazy mornings when he and Lisa had the day off, Mark wanted to sleep in. Now, some inconsiderate asshole was disturbing his rest, beating on that drum. He wasn’t even doing a good job of it. There was no rhythm. Just a steady, monotonous pounding.
Groaning, he tried to roll over. Perhaps if he put a pillow over his head, he could ignore the sound and go back to sleep. For some reason, his body wouldn’t obey his commands. He must be wrapped up in the sheets. Too tired to get up and untangle himself, he decided to sleep where he was. After an interminable time, he gave up. His head ached too much, and if anything, the pounding had gotten louder. Reluctantly, he opened one eye.
In addition to the bass drum, someone had left the overhead light on. He closed his eye to shut off the daggers that were stabbing up his optic nerve into his brain. In addition to having a headache, he realized that there was something wrong with his stomach. It was churning, as though he were about to throw up.
God, he hated that the worst. If only he could get back to sleep before the full nausea hit him. But how could he sleep when someone kept screaming his name?
“Mark! Mark, wake up.”
It was a female voice, but not Lisa’s. Lisa wasn’t here. Where was she?
“Mark, wake up! Please, wake up,” the frightened voice called again. She seemed to be yelling directly into his ear, as though her lips were but a few centimeters away; and yet, he was hearing her equally in each ear. If that weren’t enough, the words seemed to reverberate.
Clinging to half-sleep, he nevertheless cleared his throat and growled, “Get that damned light out of my eyes!”
The brightness shining through his eyelids cut off abruptly, leaving him with floating spots before his eyes, to be replaced by a relieved, “Thank God, Mark! I thought you were dead!”
#
He couldn’t be dead.
Death doesn’t feel this rotten
, he thought before surrendering. With every bit of willpower left in him, he forced himself fully awake
The incessant sound of the base drum, he realized, was coming from inside his head. It was the sound of his heartbeat. With that insight, memory flooded back.
He was in Auxiliary Control aboard
Sasquatch
. They had just ejected the egg and were moving away when… when what? There had been that strange period of non-acceleration as the engines came on, then… nothing.
The reason he could not move, he realized, was that he was in his vacuum suit, strapped down to an acceleration couch. The suit was inflated.
He reached for the release mechanism on his chest strap, only to realize that he couldn’t feel it through his gauntlets. He fumbled for a few seconds before the strap fell away. With a loud grunt, he pulled himself upright while encased in a pressurized balloon.
The exertion made his head hurt worse. Sitting up also increased his incipient nausea. There seemed to be something wrong with his inner ear.
A vacsuited figure hovered in front of him, its features obscured by the helmet lamp, which until a few seconds ago had been blinding him. The voice was that of a young woman, which limited the possibilities.
“Susan, what happened?”
“The egg exploded.
Sasquatch
caught the full blast.”
“How bad?”
“I think the Hangar Bay is gone and something is wrong with the engines. We don’t have power, we’ve lost atmosphere, and the ship is tumbling.”
That explained the dizziness. Coriolis acceleration caused the liquid in the inner ear to pile up on one side, producing the disconcerting sensation that he was tipping over.
“How are Dr. Smithson and Felicia?”
“Gordon is dead. Something came through the deck and went straight through his body. Shrapnel from the explosion, I guess. I checked on Felicia five minutes ago. She seems alive. I can’t vouch for the integrity of her bones. At her age, they are brittle.”
By this time, Mark’s eyes had adjusted and he managed to focus them on the surrounding compartment, which was dark save for the light of Susan’s helmet lamp. He turned on his own lamp to increase illumination. The spot on the far bulkhead was undiffused by intervening air.
Auxiliary Control was a squat cylinder, almost the same shape as the pressurized containers in which they shipped coffee in vacuum.
Correction.
Auxiliary Control
had been
cylindrical. It now looked like a ground car that had encountered another in the middle of an intersection. The deck was bowed upward, as though a giant fist had smashed into it. The viewscreens were shattered. The airlock door, which had been closed, was now open — hanging by one hinge, with the empty corridor visible beyond. That explained where all the air had gone and why there was so little floating debris in the compartment. Explosive decompression is one hell of an efficient vacuum cleaner.
“I’m okay,” Mark said, reaching down to release the lap belt. “Go see what you can do about Felicia.”
As he floated away from the acceleration couch, he noted a marked tendency to drift to starboard. Reaching out, he grabbed for the end of the strap to anchor himself. He slowly pivoted until he was hanging by one arm. He judged his effective weight to be only a few pounds, from which he concluded that the ship was tumbling slowly. That was a minor miracle, but disconcerting as hell.
As Susan pulled herself to where Felicia Godwin lay sprawled to one side of her acceleration couch, Mark worked his way to the open airlock and stuck his torso out into the passageway. It, too, seemed to have been twisted by some giant hand. Down the corridor, half obscured by the passageway’s curvature, he could see a pressure door bent half out of its frame. Beyond were black sky and a sunlit jumble of wreckage. The angle of the light was constantly varying, creating a slowly pirouetting pattern of light and shadow. Counting to himself, he timed the celestial ballet through two cycles. The ship, or what was left of it, seemed to be tumbling at two revolutions per minute.